


usumidori || svalinn

by aceklaviergavin



Series: Akekita Week 2020 [5]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Codependency, Crime Scenes, Emotional Manipulation, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Physical Abuse, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Minor Character Death, Partners in Crime, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Self-Defense, Unhealthy Relationships, accidental murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27407458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceklaviergavin/pseuds/aceklaviergavin
Summary: “Hello, Akechi Goro speaking,” he says as he has hundreds of times before.For a few seconds, the only sound on the other end is Yusuke's heavy breathing. Goro scowls into the receiver.“If you’re going to ask me to model again, I assure you I have much better things to be doing.”The line crackles as it bursts to life. “S-sensei’s dead,” Yusuke croaks, “I… I killed him.”
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Kitagawa Yusuke, Akechi Goro/Kitagawa Yusuke
Series: Akekita Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994365
Comments: 13
Kudos: 73
Collections: Akekita Week





	usumidori || svalinn

**Author's Note:**

> Akekita Week Day 5: **Sword** // **Shield**
> 
> me trying to figure out how to tag this:
> 
> im so hyped for this one i just think yusuke should be allowed to kill madarame
> 
> detailed triggers in the end notes

Yusuke sits in the shack’s foyer, resting at the bottom of the stairs. He’s hunched over, elbows on his knees, folded like a paper crane. Glassy eyes stare at the twisted heap of limbs lying at his feet. The only sounds in the dusty atelier are Yusuke’s rasping breaths. The bustle of Shibuya is far away, dampened by a layer of impenetrable fog. Inside the atelier, Yusuke is alone. Completely, utterly alone.

Yusuke’s hands shake where they claw into his shoulders, nails scratching against his skin. He watches from outside his body as he curls inwards. If he makes himself small enough, maybe he’ll disappear. The pounding of Yusuke’s heart marks the seconds. _One… two…_ But he doesn’t disappear. No matter how much time passes, his thoughts are chained to this body.

His fingertips grow cold and his teeth chatter inside his skull. He should… call someone. He fumbles pulling out his phone. It clatters down the stairs, echoing in the empty atelier. Yusuke scrambles after it, grasping for it with shaking hands. He should call… the police, he thinks distantly. Akira’s friend, Akechi-san. He’s a detective. He should call Akechi-san.

Across the city, Akechi Goro’s phone begins to ring.

Akechi curses under his breath, focus broken. He scowls at the phone threatening to vibrate off his desk. But internally, he’s been begging for something to pull him away from his criminology homework. He’ll take the distraction, however brief.

He’s expecting it to be Sae-san with a sudden lead or one of the officers reluctantly asking for help. _Maybe_ Akira because he’s bored. Kitagawa’s name on the caller ID is a surprise.

Akechi met Kitagawa a year ago through Akira’s eclectic group of friends. Akira had a habit of collecting strays. Akechi had heard the rumors about Madarame, but whenever he tried to follow a lead, it shriveled up before his eyes. But Akechi has always been prone to sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Yusuke proved to be evasive, flighty, exactly the picture of Akechi in his youth. No matter how Akechi pushed, Yusuke only retreated.

In the end, there was no helping someone who didn’t want to be helped. Akechi gave Yusuke his business card and told him to call if anything ever “came up.” Eventually, bigger cases drew Akechi’s attention. Madarame became little more than a lingering thought in the back of Akechi’s mind.

Akechi’s first thought is that Yusuke has finally decided to take him up on his offer. He picks up the call and puts on his falsest smile.

“Hello, Akechi Goro speaking,” he says as he has hundreds of times before.

For a few seconds, the only sound on the other end is heavy breathing. Well. Certainly not a misdial, then. Goro scowls into the receiver. He’d gotten a handful of calls like this during his TV days. He’d never pegged Kitagawa as the type.

“If you’re going to ask me to model again, I assure you I have much better things to be doing.” Like his criminology homework.

The line crackles as it bursts to life. “S-sensei’s dead,” Yusuke croaks, “I… I killed him.”

_What the hell?_

The bottom drops out of Akechi’s stomach. “Is this some kind of joke?” Every alarm is sounding in Akechi’s brain, his intuition telling him this is anything but. “I didn’t think you had such a sick sense of humor, Kitagawa-san.”

 _He doesn’t,_ Akechi’s mind supplies, _he’s not the type._

The line goes dead without a response. All Akechi can do is grip his phone in ice-cold hands, listening to the roar of silence on the other end. He and Kitagawa barely know each other. Certainly not enough to confess to a murder.

What game is Kitagawa playing? _There’s no game._

What kind of call was that? _A desperate one._

Kitagawa must be after something. _He’s asking for help._

Kitagawa is little more than a stranger. Akechi has no obligation to give him… whatever it is he’s asking for. If Kitagawa wanted help, he should have called Akira.

 _Which begs the question, why did he call_ you _instead?_

A wise man would go back to their homework. Stay uninvolved. Maybe send a tip to the police if he’s feeling generous.

Akechi has never been a wise man.

“Shit, damn, motherfucker,” he curses under his breath.

Akechi scrambles out the door, barely taking the time to throw on a coat. He takes the stairs two at a time and exits out into the Tokyo streets. The fastest route to the atelier is certainly a cab. But that would make the driver a witness. If there is, in fact, a crime scene Akechi doesn’t want anyone to spot him heading there. Akechi quickly checks to make sure the GPS is off on his phone.

The atelier is too far to bike, especially if he wants to reach it before the alleged body grows cold. That leaves the subway. Akechi keeps his head down and hopes that no one recognizes him on the way to Shibuya.

He keeps himself to a brisk walk as he approaches the piece of shit Madarame calls a home. As much as time is of the essence, Akechi Goro running through the streets of Tokyo would surely draw unwanted attention. Akechi surveys the old shack, making a quick circuit around the property line.

The house is still, a piece of calm amidst the chaos of Tokyo. There are no obvious signs of danger, no faces in the window or shifting curtains. It’s just a home threatening to crumble under its own weight. But Akechi knows that still waters run deep.

Akechi approaches the front door cautiously. He doesn’t know what lies in wait for him inside. Whatever it is, he’s not about to be caught by surprise. He listens at the door. The only thing he hears are the chirps of crows overhead. After a moment, he tries the doorknob. When it turns, he’s grateful that he won’t have to pull out his lockpicks in broad daylight.

Inside, Yusuke sits slumped at the bottom of the staircase. His head hangs low between his knees. He doesn’t look up at Akechi’s entrance. His rasping breaths drown out the door’s creaking as it opens. At his feet lies a rumpled yukata draped over an unmoving body.

The door clicks shut behind Akechi, the sound echoing through the empty shack. He finds himself strangely unsurprised at the scene. It feels like a natural conclusion. He approaches with trepidation, eyes never leaving the lump of clothes.

Akechi’s coworkers try to keep him away from the more grisly crimes, concerned for his health at such a young age. But Akechi is as stubborn as they come. This is far from the first time he’s seen a dead body. It’s only his second time examining one, though.

As he gets closer, Akechi notes the shock of gray hair, undone from its usual tail. The man’s eyes are wide open, unblinking and glassy as they stare into nothingness. His thin jaw lolls open, lips parted in a silent scream. Akechi didn’t believe it before seeing it himself, but this is definitely Madarame.

Akechi scowls. He’s been trying to nail Madarame to the wall for years. Now, here he is offered up on a silver platter and Akechi didn’t even get to deliver the final blow. It’s infuriating.

Akechi kneels at Madarame’s side. The old man’s arms are twisted beneath him, leaving his neck exposed. Madarame’s throat twists at an unnatural angle. Broken, most likely. But Akechi isn’t one to take chances. He places two gloved fingers beneath Madarame’s jaw and searches for the thrum of his heart. The only thing against Goro’s fingers is rapidly cooling skin.

“He’s definitely dead,” Akechi pulls his hand away with a sneer.

A picture begins to form in Akechi’s mind. He’s just missing the last pieces. There’s no blood, no broken skin or lingering scent of iron. Compared to Akechi’s mother, he’s practically peaceful. In Akechi’s opinion, it’s far better than the bastard deserves.

“Where are the police?” Yusuke croaks.

It’s the first indication he’s made that he’s noticed Akechi at all. “How should I know?” Akechi scoffs. “Probably failing to help some other poor bastard.”

Akechi carefully begins inspecting Madarame’s body. He checks beneath Madarame’s fingernails, rolls up the sleeves of his yukata, and looks beneath his collar. Madarame’s form is limp, arms moving easily without effort. Rigor mortis has yet to set in. Akechi is careful not to undo his clothes, not wanting to leave any evidence of his involvement. No matter where he searches, he finds nothing. No bruises, or scrapes, nothing to indicate anything other than an old man falling down the stairs.

Or that someone didn’t fight back.

Akechi looks to Yusuke with hardened eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

Yusuke slowly lifts his head, pulling himself up like a puppet on a string. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot, and empty. His cheeks are chapped, split open by salty tears. Mucus drips from his nose down the curve of his lip, into his open mouth. He’s a sorry sight.

The width of Yusuke’s throat blooms red, a bruise just beginning to form. Akechi has to physically push his anger down. As much as Madarame deserves it, spitting on his corpse would do little for them now.

Yusuke’s voice is hoarse, wind blowing through broken reeds. “Sensei was angry. He was yelling.” Yusuke meets Akechi’s eyes but doesn’t see. “I just wanted it to stop… but he fell and…” Yusuke’s throat closes up.

Nothing Yusuke says _contradicts_ any of the evidence. But he’s left enough gaps to drive a subway car through. No one would hesitate to tear it apart.

“Yelling?” Akechi scoffs, one eyebrow raised. “And I suppose you put that bruise on your neck yourself?”

Yusuke’s hand flies to his throat protectively, shielding the injury from Akechi’s sight. Yusuke ducks his head, shame turning his face scarlet beneath the tears. Akechi has spent the past year calling attention to the bruises that Yusuke failed to hide. Akechi has always known, and Yusuke has always _known_ that he knows. After all this time, Yusuke has run out of excuses.

Yusuke keeps his hand splayed over his neck as his eyes turn to glass. “I’ve been planning to leave after my birthday,” he says numbly, lips moving around words that sound far away, “Akira has been helping me.”

Akechi fights the urge to roll his eyes. That’s just like Akira, sticking his neck out for others whether they want it or not. Then again, only one of them is crouched next to a dead body. Akechi supposes he’s in no place to judge.

“Sensei found out. He read through my messages,” Yusuke says flatly, his voice betraying no hint of emotion.

As much as Akechi tries he can’t keep the scorn out of his words. “So he tried to keep you from leaving.”

Yusuke closes his eyes. His whole frame shakes as he sucks in a deep, shuddering breath.

“He was so _angry,”_ he gasps, on the verge of tears. “He’s always been…” He trails off, unable to put words to the ills they both know he’s suffered. “But I never imagined he’d…”

“Trash like him always manages to sink lower,” Akechi spits.

“I thought I was going to _die.”_ Akechi watches the tears eke out of Yusuke’s closed eyes, trailing down his cheeks, rubbing old wounds raw. “I didn’t want to hurt him! I just wanted him to stop!”

Akechi remembers that fear. Akechi had always been a problem child. One family thought they could beat it out of him. It never worked, so they simply kept trying. He would lie awake at night and wonder if tomorrow would be the day they finally went too far.

Yusuke is far kinder than Akechi. If Akechi had had the chance, he would have killed them without a hint of remorse. But as much as he wanted to, Akechi had known what would happen. He knows what will happen to Yusuke now.

Madarame is famous in Tokyo, with friends in high places. If his political allies hear of his murder, they’ll call for justice, no matter the circumstances. No one will believe that Madarame has been abusing Yusuke for years. Not when it’s Yusuke’s word against Madarame’s name. Any of Madarame’s former pupils will be silenced or threatened into retracting their testimony.

Yusuke is an orphan, without a penny to his name. He won’t be able to afford a good defense attorney. Not that it matters. If the prosecutor chooses to press charges, which they will if Madarame’s involved, Yusuke will be guilty before he even approaches the stand. The prosecutor will tear him apart, his art, his abuse, his trauma; they’ll put it all on display for the world to see.

Yusuke will go to juvie, or prison if they try him as an adult. They’ll eat him alive. He’ll be stained for the rest of his life as Madarame’s killer. All for the crime of survival.

Yusuke holds himself, arms crossed tight over his chest as sobs wrack his body. The shock is beginning to wear off, and Akechi can see the weight of reality fall on his shoulders. In a span of minutes Yusuke has lost _everything,_ his home, his father, his _freedom._

Once upon a time, Akechi dreamed about being a hero of justice. He would shoot at shadows lurking in the corner of the bathhouse and save anthills from being trampled by other children. He grew older, fell into his life as a detective, and realized that justice was an illusion.

But the child inside him screams: _you want to be a hero? Then be a_ fucking _hero._

Akehi shoots up and stalks to Yusuke’s side. Akechi kneels down, grabbing both of Yusuke’s shoulders in a vice. The contact jolts Yusuke out of his sobs. He blinks owlishly, meeting Akechi’s eyes with fresh tears clinging to his lashes.

“Where have you been all evening?” Akechi asks urgently.

Yusuke furrows his brow. “Here…?”

“Did anyone see you besides Madarame?” His words rush to escape his tongue.

“N-no. I’ve been working on a piece.”

“Painting?” There’s only so much time.

Yusuke shakes his head. “No, charcoal.”

Akechi internally breathes a sigh of relief. They don’t have to worry about paint drying, then. “Listen to me, this is very important.” Yusuke shrinks away but Akechi holds him in place. “You’re going to call an ambulance. You’ll tell them you came home and found him like this. You’ve been at my apartment studying all evening. Madarame was old and in poor health. No one will think twice about an old man falling down the stairs.”

Yusuke stares at Akechi with wide eyes, the words taking a moment to register in his mind. “You want me to _lie?”_

“I want you,” Akechi says, voice placid and calm, “to walk away from this.”

 _“Walk away?”_ Yusuke asks incredulously. “Akechi-san, I ki—” Yusuke’s throat shutters tight, cutting off the word before he can say it.

Yusuke grasps at his throat, nails pressing into the red fingerprint bruises on the side of his neck. He clenches his eyes shut, more tears falling from his lashes. A deep furrow marrs his brow, aging him far more than his seventeen years. He forces his throat open, fighting past the bruise and the words he doesn’t want to say.

When he speaks he doesn’t open his eyes. “Sensei is dead because of me. Why should _I_ get to walk away?”

As noble as Yusuke is, they don’t have _time_ for him to be a martyr. “He _assaulted_ you Kitagawa-san, you can’t honestly tell me you believe your actions on par with his?”

“Aren’t you a detective?” Yusuke spits, eyes flashing open with pinpoint fury. “Isn’t that for the police to decide?

 _“Listen_ to me,” Akechi demands, nails digging into Yusuke’s shoulders like claws. “The police are not your friends. Why have you hidden Madarame’s abuse all these years?”

“Sensei hasn’t—”

“Because no one would believe you.”

Despite his objections, Yusuke looks away. His shame is all the confirmation Akechi needs. Besides, Akechi knows Yusuke’s fears. Not so long ago, they were his.

“Do you really think any of that will change now that Madarame’s dead? No one will want to believe that Tokyo’s precious _master artist_ has been exploiting children beneath their noses. Least of all the _police.”_

Akechi’s voice shakes with barely contained rage. He’s watched time and time again as the police failed to protect their citizens. When he was a child, they would find him on the streets, hungry and cold, and deliver him back into the arms of those he’d been running from. Now that he worked with them, he traced money exchanging hands. Wealthy, influential people like Madarame got to walk, while children like Yusuke had their lives ruined. Akechi quickly learned that protecting people had never been their job.

Yusuke stares at Akechi with wild, angry eyes. “Then why do you _work_ for them? I thought you believed in _justice?”_

Akira described Akechi as noble, a young man with convictions and the power to see them through. Yusuke imagined a white knight ripped straight from a fantasy. The Akechi in Yusuke’s mind was someone with unyielding faith, who held steadfast to his ideals.

The man in front of him was _none_ of those. Yusuke’s whole word has already crumbled in a manner of minutes. He can’t watch it fall apart again.

“I believe in _me._ Justice is a fairy tale told by those in power to keep people like you in line.” Akechi recites the words like he’s reading from a script. “If you let the police find you like this they’ll tear you apart. Is that what you think _justice_ is?”

“Maybe it is!” Yusuke shouts, voice strained. Tears run freely down Yusuke’s raw cheeks, clinging to the curve of his jaw and dripping off his chin. “Sensei raised me and I thanked him by taking his life! Someone should pay for that! Why shouldn’t it be me?”

“He could have _killed_ you!” Akechi growls, shaking Yusuke by his shoulders. “What were you supposed to do, lay down and _die?”_

He’s shouting at himself as much as Yusuke, at the child that still exists inside him.

Yusuke grasps Akechi’s hands on his shoulders, nails digging into leather gloves. “I don’t—!”

“Is that what you intend to do now? After coming this far?”

Yusuke frantically pries at Akechi’s fingers. “Let _go_ of me!”

Akechi does, falling back on his heels. Yusuke collapses back onto the steps without Akechi to hold him. Yusuke braces himself with one arm, hiding his face in his other hand. Yusuke’s sobs fill the empty space inside the atelier. His whole body shakes as he cries his throat raw. He’s so thin it seems like their force might break him apart.

Akechi watches Yusuke cry through a pane of glass. Madarame doesn’t deserve Yusuke’s tears. Akechi wants to grab Yusuke by the shoulders until he sees that. But Akechi knows anger isn’t going to make Yusuke understand. Were their positions reversed, Akechi would have been too busy spitting on Madarame’s corpse to shed a tear. But clearly, Yusuke isn’t Akechi.

Already, Akechi fears he’s done more damage than Yusuke can undo. Akechi isn’t… _good_ with emotions, or mourning, least of all for those who don’t deserve it. If Yusuke wanted comfort, he should’ve called Akira. But Akira is far too emotional for something like this. He’d suggest something ridiculous, like hiding Madarame’s body. Akira already has a record, if he tried to provide Yusuke an alibi, the police would immediately become suspicious.

No, Akira might be what Yusuke wants, but Akechi is what he _needs._ He’s the only one who can get Yusuke out of this mess and he’s going to do it no matter the cost. Right now, Yusuke needs to survive. They can pick up the pieces later.

Yusuke’s sobs peter out, fading into quiet hiccups.

Akechi allows Yusuke a moment to mourn before he speaks. “Frankly, I don’t care what you think you deserve. You called me and I’m going to do what I think is just.”

Yusuke stares at Akechi for a long moment. All the anger and fear has drained from his eyes, replaced by a cloudy, gray sky. He hiccups, then slowly, he nods.

“Good boy.” Akechi pushes himself to a stand.

Yusuke watches with unfocused eyes, and it occurs to him that in Madarame’s absence, he's simply found a new master.

Akechi begins a quick walkthrough of the shack. They should call an ambulance sooner rather than later, but they have a bit of time. For Yusuke’s alibi to make sense, they need to call before the trains stop running. Akechi checks his phone. They still have plenty of time.

It shouldn’t be too hard to make the scene look like an accident. Akechi just needs to make sure there are no traces that Yusuke was here when it happened.

“Is your phone’s GPS on?” Akechi calls from the kitchen.

There’s no used cutlery on the counter, no warm food cooling on the stove. He checks the oven and finds it as cool as Madarame’s corpse.

“I don’t have a GPS,” Yusuke murmurs, “Sensei said it was too expensive.”

The corner of Akechi’s mouth quirks into a devilish sneer. It seemed that Madarame’s own greed would be his undoing. How poetic.

“You’re certain?” Thankfully the atelier is horribly cramped. It’s not very long before Akechi is back at the entryway. “Madarame wasn’t tracking you?”

A shoe rack sits by the door, holding a pair of worn leather shoes in Yusuke’s size. Akechi glances over his shoulder to where Madarame lay still. He’s clearly visible from the front door. If Yusuke came home to find his foster father dead, no person in their right mind would bother to take off their shoes.

“He had other ways to keep an eye on me,” Yusuke says plainly.

Akechi grabs Yusuke’s shoes. “Put these on.” He drops them at Yusuke’s feet as he brushes past.

Yusuke picks one shoe off the floor, brow furrowed in confusion. “But we’re inside,” he protests.

Akechi rolls his eyes as he climbs the stairs. “Is that really what you’re worried about?” he scoffs. "Just put the damn shoes on.”

If Yusuke has any other objections, he keeps them to himself. He puts on the shoes, ever the obedient puppet.

There’s only a few rooms upstairs, two bedrooms—the master and a smaller one—and a locked door sporting gaudy, painted peacock feathers. The larger bedroom, presumably Madarame’s, is clear, without a hint of evidence. Yusuke’s room holds a canvas, a futon, and a worn messenger bag discarded on the floor. The canvas is a smudged charcoal drawing of a long-nosed bird, dark feathers spread in flight.

Akechi takes the bag. If it’s Yusuke’s school bag, it should be by the door. Akechi eyes the landing at the top of the stairs. It was here that Madarame took his last breaths. Thankfully for them, Madarame prided himself on his frugality, avowing himself of worldly possessions. There’s barely any decor, no vases to knock over, or furniture to grab in a last ditch effort to maintain balance. There’s no evidence of a struggle, no sign that Madarame fell because of anything but his own clumsiness.

Akechi shoots one last glance at the locked room. “What’s behind this ugly door?” he calls down to Yusuke.

“That’s Sensei’s studio. I’ve never been allowed inside.”

Akechi raises an eyebrow and begins to descend the stairs. “You’ve lived here your whole life and never entered that room?” Akechi drops Yusuke’s bag unceremoniously at his feet. “You don’t find that suspicious?”

Yusuke shrugs. “Does it matter?”

No, Akechi supposes. Whatever sins Madarame may or may not be hiding aren’t his concern at the moment. What matters now is hiding Yusuke’s. Akechi looks him over one last time. His puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks make him the perfect image of a grieving young man. There’s little need for Akechi to dress him up.

Save for one thing.

Akechi shrugs off his coat and hands it to Yusuke. “Put this on. Keep it zipped up. Don’t let anyone see that bruise.”

Yusuke takes it and does as he’s told. The sleeves fall just above his wrist, his shoulders pulling the lapel tight over his chest. But the collar fits snug against his throat, hiding his injury from sight. When Yusuke breathes in, he smells ash and sandalwood.

Yusuke tugs at the collar. “It’s itchy,” he complains.

Akechi rolls his eyes. “We can switch it out for a prison jumpsuit if you’d like?”

Yusuke’s eyes burn with the salty remnants of unshed tears as he meets Akechi’s gaze. “How can you be so… calm?” he asks incredulously.

Akechi suspects the first word Yusuke thought of had been far less kind than “calm.” Cold, ruthless, calculating would be far more fitting. It’s no matter, Akechi has heard it all before.

"One of us has to be,” he says simply.

Akechi grabs a notebook from his bag and opens to a new page. For a minute, the only sound filling the shack is the hurried scratch of Akechi’s pen. When he’s done, he tears out the page and thrusts it at Yusuke. Yusuke only has to glance at it to understand that it’s a script… for him.

“You’re going to call 119 and read exactly what this says. If they ask any questions I haven’t written down just say you don’t know.”

The words swim before Yusuke’s eyes. The weight of the lie he’s about to commit to forms a heavy stone in his gut. Yusuke has lied before. He’s spent his life hiding and downplaying the ills he’s suffered under Madarame. He’s lied to Akechi’s _face._ The lie itself isn’t the problem. It’s that once he’s told this lie, it’ll only grow, like a wildfire, until every word Yusuke breathes is poisoned with untruth.

Once he’s told this lie, it can’t be undone.

“I can’t do this,” he gasps, choking for air in Akechi’s too tight coat.

“I don’t care,” Akechi snaps. “Do it anyway.”

Yusuke balks. “You’re asking me to lie for the rest of my life!”

“It’s cute that you think I’m _asking.”_ Akechi crouches down to Yusuke’s level, eyes like hardened garnet. “You’re not going to have much of a life left if you don’t start lying.”

“As if I had one before,” Yusuke scoffs, voice dripping with bitterness. “I’ve lived my whole life in this prison.” He gestures vaguely at the shack. “It’s only fitting that I’d end up in another.”

“You don’t care about yourself? _Fine.”_ Akechi’s lip curls back into a snarl. “But you called me here. I’ve traipsed up and down this disgusting shack of yours and left my fingerprints all over this mess you’ve made.” A lie, of course. Akechi is far too clever to be so careless.

Yusuke’s face drains, even the red around his eyes growing pale. “I…”

“So you can tell the truth and sell yourself out,” Akechi says sweetly, “but you’ll be dragging me with you the whole way.”

Yusuke freezes under the force of Akechi’s gaze. He meets Akechi’s eyes, visceral and wild. When he called Akechi, in his shock-addled haze, he thought he’d been calling for law and order, someone that would do the just and noble thing. For the first time, Yusuke realizes he’s shackled himself to primordial chaos, that he’ll tear Yusuke down before letting him go.

Yusuke slumps and takes the script from Akechi’s hand. He’s never had a choice his whole life. Why should this be any different?

Akechi smiles, sweet even as his canines glint like sharpened steel. “That’s better,” he croons, watching Yusuke dial with shaking fingers.

“This is 119, what’s your emergency?”

Yusuke reads the words in front of his eyes even as they trip over his tongue. “M-my friend and I just arrived home and… and found my… my sensei collapsed. I… I think he fell down the stairs?”

Everything blurs together after that. No, Madarame isn’t moving, no I can’t feel his breath, no I can’t find a pulse, no I don’t know CPR. Akechi is kind enough to take over at that point. Unlike Yusuke, Akechi has no qualms about breaking a few of Madarame’s ribs. Akechi pauses to take the script from Yusuke’s hands, balls it up, and shoves it in his mouth. Akechi chews while he compresses Madarame’s chest.

Obviously, Akechi has no intention of _actually_ saving Madarame’s life. He’s been dead far too long for CPR to help anyway. Not that they’re going to tell emergency services that. But the best lies are ones close to the truth, and their ruse will be far more believable if they make every attempt in good faith. Akechi isn’t going to breathe in Madarame’s mouth, though.

Besides, Akechi thinks as Madarame’s ribs strain beneath his hands, there are benefits to getting his hands dirty. Akechi feels bone give way, as a sickening _crack_ bursts in Madarame’s chest, the snap of a turkey’s wishbone, amplified. Yusuke retches, head between his knees. Akechi sneers, and wishes the old man was alive to feel it.

Only a handful of minutes pass before the ambulance arrives. They find the scene much as Akechi had, Madarame collapsed as Yusuke struggles to breathe. Akechi gladly cedes his position for someone to take his place. A young man resumes compressions while his partner readies the defibrillator. Akechi watches with muted interest as the paramedic rips open Madarame’s yukata and sticks the electrodes to his chest.

“Clear!” Madarame’s back arches off the floor. “Clear!” Electricity courses through Madarame’s still heart. “Clear!” Madarame jolts, back bowing one last time, then lies still.

Silence fills the atelier as reality sets in. “Time of death, 19:36.”

It was a foregone conclusion. No amount of electricity would jumpstart Madarame’s heart. But there’s a finality to hearing it said aloud, knowing that a chain of events has started to break the shackles on Yusuke’s heart. He’s so close to freedom. Yusuke covers his mouth with a choked sob, a fresh wave of tears escaping his eyes. Akechi places a steadying hand on Yusuke’s back. If he’s to be Yusuke’s “friend,” he needs to play the part.

It’s not long before the police arrive. An officer enters as the paramedics pack up, already on their way to the next emergency. Akechi recognizes him as Officer Noguchi. He’s a beat cop who’s been looked over for promotion far longer than is respectable. Instead of self-reflection and realizing that the fault lies in his own subpar work ethic, Noguchi blames bureaucracy. He particularly dislikes young people who rise quickly through the ranks. People like Akechi.

Akechi has to bite back his smile. He can use this. The fact that they sent Noguchi at all speaks volumes. Clearly, they don’t suspect foul play, or they would have sent someone competent. Noguchi eyes the scene and spends a few minutes taking pictures.

When he’s done, he turns to Yusuke, pulling out a notepad and pen. “You’re the one who—”

“Officer Noguchi!” Akechi greets with false cheer. “It’s been some time, though I wish we met under better circumstances.”

Slowly, Noguchi’s eyes pan to Akechi, seeing him for the first time. The lines around his mouth deepen in thinly veiled disgust. Akechi smiles beatifically. Really, what self-respecting officer entered the scene without even glancing at the witnesses?

“Akechi-kun,” he says flatly, “I wasn’t aware they called you in.”

“Oh no, I’m not working,” Akechi says dismissively, “I’m a friend of Yusuke-kun’s.”

Akechi catches Yusuke’s side-eye at the name. Akechi pinches the middle of Yusuke’s back. Yusuke jumps slightly, but seems to get the hint. He turns his gaze back to Noguchi.

Akechi can almost see the vein throbbing in Noguchi’s temple. Noguchi resolutely turns back to Yusuke. Yusuke, at least, seems properly intimidated by an officer of the law, and shrinks under Noguchi’s gaze.

“So, Kitagawa-kun, was it? You’re—”

“Actually,” Akechi cuts in, “I believe you need permission from a guardian to interview a minor.”

Noguchi’s gaze snaps back to Akechi, steely and enraged. The corners of his mouth pull down sharply, the furrow in his brow aging him another decade. Akechi smiles pleasantly, unfazed by Noguchi’s anger.

“Seeing as Yusuke-kun’s guardian is the deceased…” Akechi makes sure to display the appropriate amount of respect. “That would make him a ward of the state now, and guardianship will transfer to one of Tokyo’s many childcare facilities.”

Noguchi turns to Yusuke with tired eyes. “Is that true? Are you a minor?”

Yusuke meets Noguchi’s gaze with a wild-eyed, deer in headlights look. “I… I don’t know…”

Akechi pinches him again.

“I… I mean yes,” Yusuke stammers. At Noguchi’s answering scowl, Yusuke helpfully adds “I turn eighteen in January.” It does nothing to improve Noguchi’s mood.

Akechi’s smile widens, all teeth. “I’m not sure what sort of red tape is involved, but I imagine it may take some time to transfer custody, then track down Yusuke’s new guardian to get their permission.” Akechi makes a show of checking his phone. “If you get started now, you may be able to get Yusuke-kun’s statement before midnight.”

“Family?” Noguchi asks with rapidly fading hope.

“I… don’t have any…” Yusuke murmurs.

Akechi rubs gentle circles on Yusuke’s back. “Yusuke-kun is an orphan. Madarame-san has raised him since Yusuke-kun was three. As you can imagine this,” Akechi gestures at Madarame’s body, “has been extremely traumatic.”

Noguchi looks between Akechi and Yusuke for a long moment, before finally snapping his notebook shut. “It’s fine,” he says.

Akechi feigns surprise, even as he inwardly cheers. “Officer Noguchi, are you sure? I’d hate for you to get reprimanded.”

Noguchi waves him off. “We have the 119 call. If there are any further questions we’ll call you in at a later date. Besides…” Noguchi looks over his shoulder at where Madarame lay. “I really don’t think we need a detective for this one.”

Akechi nods solemnly. “It’s the ultimate tragedy that life can be snuffed out so suddenly. We never know when a parting will be our last.”

Noguchi nods and meets Akechi’s eye with understanding and the gleam of newfound respect. Ha. If only the fool knew.

Noguchi waits while the medical examiner arrives. Their inspection is quick and routine. They state the cause of death as spinal cord injury caused by falling. A team arrives to transport the body to the mortuary.

Yusuke watches as Madarame disappears into a body bag. His features sink into the shadows, and Yusuke realizes this is the last time he’ll ever see his sensei’s face. He and Akira have been planning this moment for months. But there’s no triumph to be found, only a heavy knot of guilt tightening around his throat.

Noguchi gently pats Yusuke’s shoulder, jolting Yusuke out of his thoughts. “Take care of yourself, kid.” Yusuke nods sharply.

Noguchi gives him one last pitying look before he leaves. They carry Madarame’s body away. Suddenly, the atelier is empty, save for Akechi and Yusuke. It’s just as silent as when Akechi arrived, the bustle of Shibuya far away. With Madarame gone, no one would ever know of the sins that happened here.

Yusuke stares at the spot on the floor where Madarame had lain. There’s no stain, no warped wood cracked like the bones in Madarame’s neck. There’s nothing other than a barren, ugly floor.

“I think that went about as well as can be expected,” Akechi says, a hint of pride clinging to his words. “I highly doubt they’ll even call you down to the station.”

Yusuke crosses his arms over his chest and watches the floor with eyes of glass. “How do you do that?”

“Hm? Do what?”

“Lie?” Yusuke dares to meet his eyes.

Akechi stares him down, unyielding for a long moment. “Practice,” he finally says.

“It took everything I had to lie on the phone, and then to keep my mouth shut while they walked all over what I had done.” Yusuke holds himself tight. “It was _exhausting.”_

“You get used to it,” Akechi says simply.

And that idea itself is _terrifying_ to Yusuke. He doesn’t _want_ to get used to it. He doesn’t want to grow comfortable with these bloodstained hands. He doesn’t want to wrap himself in lies until he loses sight of the truth.

Yusuke tears his eyes away. “Does Akira even know the real you?”

“There is no ‘real’ me. Absolute truth is a myth. My ‘self’ is constructed of the projections others see me through,” Akechi scoffs. “But to answer your question—yes, Akira knows I’m a monster.”

Yusuke purses his lips. “You’re nothing like he described you as.”

Akechi laughs darkly. “I could say the same for you. I always thought that if I helped cover up a murder, Akira would be involved.” Akechi looks over Yusuke, wraithlike and thin. “Not his eccentric friend.”

“That’s fair, I suppose.” Yusuke doesn’t meet Akechi’s eyes. “I always thought that when Sensei finally tried to kill me, I’d let him.”

Akechi stares at him, at the profile Yusuke makes against the shadows. There’s so much about Yusuke that he’ll never understand. In Yusuke’s place, Akechi would have killed Madarame years ago. Or run away, or cut off his own hands out of spite. Yusuke has so much restraint. Akechi does, too, but Akechi uses his to protect himself, to hide his true face from the world. Yusuke reigns himself in for all the wrong reasons.

“Thankfully, survival is a hard instinct to ignore,” Akechi says slowly.

Yusuke opens his mouth, but finds that he doesn’t have any words. He watches numbly as Akechi straightens his gloves and picks his briefcase off the floor.

“Now, I believe we’re done here. I’m not sure how long you’ll be able to stay, but it’ll likely be at least a week or two before you’re forced to leave,” Akechi says with too much cheer.

Yusuke stares at the drab walls that have caged him in his whole life. The air is stale and acrid on his tongue, poisoned by the memories that cling to the wood like a shroud. The sudden silence is deafening.

“I can’t stay here,” he says quietly.

Akechi pauses, watching the way Yusuke curls in on himself. Akechi’s blood still boils whenever he has to pass near one of his old foster homes. He grinds his teeth whenever work takes him near the Diet building. It would be cruel to force Yusuke to spend another night in this disgusting place.

For a moment, Akechi considers sending him to Akira. But in his current state, Yusuke is liable to blab to Akira the first chance he gets. While they could probably trust Akira with this secret, Akechi would rather not. There are some things he prefers to keep to himself. He’s selfish that way.

“This place is a shithole, anyway.” Akechi picks Yusuke’s bag off the floor and hands it to him. “Come on, then.”

Yusuke shoulders his bag mechanically and looks at Akechi with a furrowed brow. “What are you doing?”

Akechi rolls his eyes. “Taking you to my apartment.”

Yusuke blinks owlishly, then follows Akechi out the door. When it locks behind him, he chances a look over his shoulder. It seems so much smaller, now that he’s no longer imprisoned within its walls. There’s never been a day of his life that he was truly free. He looks forward to where Akechi waits impatiently ahead. He’s still not sure if he is now.

But whether he’s taking his first steps of freedom, or simply exchanging one prison for another, he’ll keep moving forward. He has to.

Akechi splurges on a cab. There’s no reason to hide their movements now, and the last thing Akechi wants to do is ride the train with a bunch of sweaty mouth-breathers. Besides, in Yusuke’s current state, Akechi isn’t sure he could handle the subway. The ride is still long, silent save for the hum of the engine. They exit outside Akechi’s apartment and make the long trek up the stairs.

When they step through the door, everything is just as Akechi left it. His criminology homework still lies open on his desk, jazz playing from the tinny laptop speakers. He’s… never had company over before, not even Akira. His apartment is tiny, barely big enough to fit one person. There’s hardly any proper furniture, only the desk and a clothing rack, baring the entirety of his wardrobe, all dull grays and muted browns. Akechi’s never wanted to let anyone see the reality behind the mask.

But if Yusuke finds Akechi’s threadbare apartment strange, he’s too tired to comment on it. In fairness, Akechi’s dull, empty apartment isn’t that different from the atelier, save for the dead body on the floor. Yusuke drops his bag unceremoniously by the door and takes off his shoes. Akechi shuts his laptop with a click and the music stops.

“It’s small, but there’s a shower if you’d like to wash up.”

Yusuke shrugs out of Akechi’s jacket, draping it over the back of his desk chair. The bruise on his neck is already beginning to darken, a red butterfly spread across his throat. Akechi takes his coat and hangs it up, dusting off the wool.

Yusuke’s shoulders slump with a heavy sigh. “I just want to sleep.”

Akechi nods, glancing at his futon. It’s barely big enough for him, it’s certainly not going to contain someone of Yusuke’s height. He opens the kitchen cupboard and grabs his winter blankets from the top shelf. It should be plenty for Yusuke to bundle himself up in. He spreads them out on the floor, then bundles up a couple towels to serve as a pillow. Between the futon and Yusuke’s makeshift bedspread, nearly the entire floor of Akechi’s apartment is occupied.

“It’s not much,” Akechi says, standing back to survey his work, “but I hope it will suffice.”

Yusuke falls onto the floor with a heavy thud. “It’s fine.”

Yusuke curls up on the blanket, the fabric scratching uncomfortably on his sensitive skin. Akechi has given him a thick, wool blanket. It rests over Yusuke’s knees, much heavier than the cotton blanket he’s used to from the atelier. But Yusuke ignores his discomfort and hugs his knees to his chest. For someone with such long limbs, he manages to make himself look unfairly small. Akechi sighs and turns away, quickly rifling through his cabinets.

“Have you had dinner?” he calls over his shoulder, pulling out a container of instant yakisoba.

“I’m not hungry,” Yusuke murmurs into his knees.

“That’s not what I asked,” Akechi says, throwing the noodles in the microwave.

They come out in exactly a minute, hot and steaming. Akechi stirs in the sauce packet and freeze dried vegetables before taking a seat on his futon, legs nearly bumping into Yusuke’s. Akechi sets the cup of noodles between them and waves a pair of chopsticks in front of Yusuke’s face.

“Here,” Akechi orders, “you should still eat something.”

Yusuke stares at the chopsticks blankly for a moment, then turns his steely gaze on Akechi. “Why are you helping me?” he asks suddenly.

Akechi freezes, silence filling his apartment.

“I don’t have anything I can give you,” Yusuke continues, hands fisting in the fabric of his slacks. “You heard me tell the officer. I don’t have any family, and I doubt any of Madarame’s possessions will go to me.”

“Stop,” Akechi snaps. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“No?” Yusuke laughs bitterly, tearing his eyes away. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want. It’s the truth.”

“How rich!” Yusuke’s laughter flirts with the edge of hysteria, echoing off Akechi’s empty walls. “You ask me to lie, then see fit to lecture me about truth!” His eyes flash with the rage of a winter storm. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

It’s a fair question, one Akechi would surely ask were their positions reversed. However, Akechi isn’t sure he has an answer. Why _did_ he help Yusuke? It would have been so easy to walk away before getting himself involved, to call the police or simply feign ignorance. Hell, if he’d thrown Yusuke to the wolves he very well could have used it to his advantage. Getting a confession from the boy who killed the famed artist Madarame? His career would have skyrocketed again.

But the very thought makes his blood boil. He’d much rather see Madarame burn.

Akechi sits back on his knees with a sigh. “Has Akira told you anything about my past?”

Yusuke narrows his eyes. “No?”

Good. Akira hasn’t been going around blabbing his secrets, then. Akechi’s not very keen on ripping open those wounds now. But it’s in his interest that Yusuke trust him if they’re going to keep this secret.

“I never knew my father, and my mother killed herself when I was young,” Akechi says flatly.

Yusuke visibly flinches. “That’s horrible.”

Akechi shrugs. He’s not looking for pity. “I was put into foster care, shipped around from one family to the next whenever they got tired of me.” Akechi can’t help the scowl that marrs his face. “I knew quite a few people like Madarame.”

Yusuke watches him keenly. “I see.”

Akechi sneers, fists tightening at his sides. “If I had the chance I would have killed them in a heartbeat.” Suddenly, his expression calms, all traces of anger smoothed away. “I suppose I’m jealous. You’ve done what I was never able to.”

Yusuke stares at him with newfound understanding, as if seeing him for the first time. Akechi thrusts the chopsticks toward him again. “Now eat. The noodles are getting cold.”

Finally, Yusuke takes them with a sigh, turning to face Akechi. Akechi doesn’t actually have any bowls of his own, so they end up eating from the same cup. They take turns guiding noodles into their mouths, slurping loudly in the newfound quiet. The noodles taste stale, the sauce too bitter, and the pathetic squares of carrot crunch between Akechi's teeth. At the end, Akechi lets Yusuke drink the watery broth. It’s not a very filling meal by any standard, but neither of them are particularly hungry.

Akechi retreats to his bathroom to shower and change into something comfortable. He wipes away his makeup, removing his carefully constructed mask to reveal the young man underneath. Bare-faced, Akechi stops to look at himself in the mirror. The circles under his eyes are dark, worry lines dark between his brows.

“Was it worth it?” he wonders aloud.

When he exits, Yusuke has already bundled himself in Akechi’s blankets, head resting on the towel with closed eyes. At least he won’t see Akechi’s natural face. Akechi turns off the light, then slips into the futon beside him. Akechi lies on his back, staring into the darkness. The only sounds are Yusuke’s breaths and the bustle of the city outside.

Akechi’s body vibrates with tension, the events of the past few hours playing over and over again in his mind. He knows he made the right choice he’ll be able to live with. But god, what the hell has he gotten himself into?

He’s tipped over the first domino in a chain that can’t be undone, with consequences stretching out to the horizon. There’s no telling what the future holds, where the rabbit hole leads. This is a weight that Yusuke will have to bear for the rest of his life. In his current state, that could be a matter of days or decades. However long Yusuke bears this secret, Akechi is bound to him.

Yusuke can undo everything Akechi’s worked for just by opening his mouth. Akechi has never trusted anyone but himself, that’s how he made it this far. Akechi doesn’t appreciate someone having so much power over him. The only solution now is to turn the tables, to wield that power over Yusuke just the same. Akechi simply has to make guilt more appealing than damnation.

The first hitch of Yusuke’s breath is quiet, almost imperceptible. Akechi lets it slide as a simple cough, nothing to worry over. But then it happens again, spiraling into choked off gasps breaking the night’s stillness. Akechi glances to his side. Yusuke is turned away, the blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders. But even through the dark, Akechi can see the outline of Yusuke’s shoulders, quaking as he tries to muffle his sobs.

“Yusuke…” Akechi sighs.

“I’m sorry,” Yusuke chokes, he buries his face in the blanket. “I’ll… I’ll leave.”

“Don’t,” Akechi snaps.

Slowly, he dares to reach across the distance separating them and places a hand on the small of Yusuke’s back. It just rests there, a gentle weight to guide Yusuke back from his thoughts. Akechi isn’t good at providing comfort. He’s never tried. When Akechi hurt, he pushed those feelings down and used that pain to drive himself forward. He had no time to spare for pity.

Akechi doesn’t know what to do, other than stay by Yusuke’s side. Again, this is Akira’s forte, not his.

At Akechi’s touch, Yusuke goes still. Akechi’s first thought is that he’s made a terrible mistake, that touch was the _last_ thing Yusuke wanted. But before Akechi can pull away, Yusuke turns over, reaching out to lay his palm over Akechi’s heart. His hand is strangely cold, the touch alien… but not unwelcome. Akechi settles his hand over Yusuke’s waist as Yusuke quietly sobs into his blanket.

“Every time I close my eyes I’m in the atelier,” Yusuke gasps. “I forget to breathe and I think I’m going to _die_ again.”

“It’s over now,” Goro murmurs, he feels the jut of Yusuke’s hipbone against his palm. “You didn’t die.”

“You say that like it’s something to be _proud_ of.”

“It _is,”_ Akechi growls. “So many others crumbled where you held strong. You _survived.”_

“At what cost?” Yusuke chokes. “I can’t forget the look on his face, when I realized he wasn’t getting up. How am I supposed to live with this?”

There’s no good answer. “You will,” Akechi says. “You have to.”

“It _hurts.”_

“I know.”

Akechi dares to pull Yusuke close, tucking Yusuke’s face into the hollow of his throat. Yusuke holds tight, lashes smearing tears across the skin of Akechi’s neck. Akechi’s never let anyone this close before. If Yusuke wanted, he could bite down on Akechi’s pulse. But then, Akechi supposes, Yusuke would be killing the only person who can keep him safe. Despite all odds, they’re a team now, bound together by blood and a web of lies.

It’s the closest thing to security Akechi’s ever had.

When Yusuke wakes the next morning, he’s alone in Akechi’s bed, the blankets scratching against his skin. Yellow sunlight cuts across the bedspread, brightening the inside of the apartment. Yusuke’s head pounds, his nose stuffy and eyes aching from his tears. Slowly, he pulls himself up and finds a note placed at the end of the bed.

> Yusuke,
> 
> I had to leave for class. I already called Kosei and told them of your situation, they’ve given you the rest of the week to mourn. I’ll be back in the afternoon, don’t leave. There’s food for you on the counter.
> 
> A.G

Yusuke rubs his eyes and checks the clock on the microwave. It’s just after noon, meaning he slept through the morning. The knowledge that he’s slept so long shoots ice through his veins. Madarame always insisted he be up with the dawn. The thought of Madarame immediately brings a rush of memories from the previous day. Yusuke hangs his head between his knees, fighting against the bile rising in his throat.

A moment passes and with it the wave of guilt. Undoubtedly, it will come back, but for now, Yusuke stumbles to his feet. A layer of dirt and sweat clings to him, yesterday’s clothes crinkled from sleep. Yusuke heads to the bathroom, belatedly taking Akechi up on the offer for a shower.

Akechi’s shower is fickle, the water pressure changing in bursts, the temperature quickly turning cold. It’s similar to the atelier that way. Yusuke struggles to make sense of the variety of hair and skincare products lining the tub, but he manages to find the soap and shampoo. He dries himself using his pillow from last night, then uses the bottle of mouthwash next to the sink.

Yusuke stops, catching sight of himself in the foggy bathroom mirror. Slowly, he wipes away the condensation with his hand and takes himself in for the first time since yesterday. Despite having to put on the same clothes he feels… better. Certainly not back to a hundred percent, his soul still feels like it’s been wrung dry, but better. His hair is clean, skin clear even though dark bags hang beneath his eyes.

But standing out more than anything is the dark purple bruise spanning the width of his neck. Numbly, he brings a hand up to it and the skin stings beneath his touch. He pulls away like he’s been burned, hissing through clenched teeth. The center is almost blue, redness feathering out around the edges. It’s repulsive, and just the sight of it makes Yusuke’s gut churn with nausea. Yusuke throws a towel over the mirror and leaves.

On the kitchen counter, he finds that Akechi has left him a protein bar and another cup of noodles. Yusuke takes the protein bar, imagining it won’t be too difficult to shove down, and pours himself a glass of water. The bar claims to be chocolate peanut butter flavored, but it tastes like ash in his mouth.

Yusuke opens his bag, checking to see what he brought with him. His school supplies, a sketchbook, and his phone lie inside. He checks his phone, only to find it long dead. Yusuke doesn’t have the energy to search through Akechi’s place for a charger and frankly, doesn’t feel like talking to anyone anyway. Yusuke grabs his sketchbook and a pencil instead, then returns to sitting on Akechi’s futon.

He flips to a blank page and balances the book on his knees. He touches graphite to the page and then… nothing. Yusuke’s used to milking every spare moment for a drop of inspiration, drawing even when his hands ached and his eyes burned. But now, nothing comes to him. When he tries to think of an idea, something to spark his passion, all he can think of is the stillness in Madarame’s eyes, the anger when Yusuke thought he was going to die.

His hand shakes, lead snapping against the paper. He’s used to being able to paint through any hardship. Art was his escape when stress and anxiety threatened to wear him down. But no amount of determination can break through the fog in his mind. Madarame taught him everything he knows. Every line, every color spoke of Madarame’s influence. If he draws a masterpiece, it’s because Madarame taught him how.

Madarame lives on in the lines he draws on the page.

If Yusuke were to paint something now, would his guilt seep into the canvas? Every stroke runs red with Madarame’s blood. If Yusuke dares to show it to the world, it would be as good as stringing up his guilty soul for all to see. What art could Yusuke possibly make now that his hands are tainted?

Yusuke tears out the page, crumples it in his hands and throws it across the room.

Akechi returns not long after that. “Good, you’re still here.”

Yusuke shrugs listlessly.

“You haven’t answered any of my texts,” Akechi hums, setting his briefcase on the desk.

“My phone’s dead,” Yusuke says.

“Ah.” Akechi glances at him, looking him over for the first time since entering the apartment. “Noguchi-san put me in contact with the morgue holding Madarame’s body. A mistress of his is handling the funeral arrangements—”

“A mistress?” Yusuke interrupts.

Akechi blinks at him. “You didn’t know?”

Yusuke shakes his head.

Akechi closes his briefcase with a _snap._ “Yes, he had a mistress and a sizeable estate in her name outside the city. The funeral will be at the end of the week, you won’t have to do anything but you’ll be expected to attend.”

Yusuke’s head spins at the revelation that Madarame had a _mistress_ and a second home. All those nights Madarame claimed to be meeting with art dealers and gallery owners was he really with his lover? His skin crawls at the idea of appearing at Madarame’s funeral and all the searching eyes watching him, waiting for him to slip up. Yusuke feels the bile rising in his throat again.

“Yusuke?” When Yusuke refocuses, he finds Akechi kneeling in front of him. “Are you listening?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Yusuke shakes himself out of his daze.

Akechi eyes him warily. “There’s no need to panic. We have days to prepare and no one will fault you for acting strange after what you’ve been through.”

Yusuke nods blankly. It brings him some comfort to hear Akechi say “we.” He doubts he could go through this on his own.

Akechi stands, brushing himself off. “I can’t stay long. I made plans to see Akira this evening. You’re free to remain here.”

The idea of Akechi leaving, of being alone again makes Yusuke’s hair stand on end. Normally in his free time, he’ll keep himself busy with sketches. His failed attempt at artwork still lies crumpled in the corner of Akechi’s kitchen. Without anything to do, Yusuke will be alone with his thoughts. Nothing sounds less appealing.

“Can I come with you?” Yusuke blurts out.

Akechi pauses, giving him a wary look. “I… suppose. Are you sure you’re alright? News has broken of Madarame’s death. Akira will likely have questions.”

That does give Yusuke pause. If Akira asks questions, which he certainly will, Yusuke will have to lie. Akira is… Yusuke’s closest friend. Yusuke hasn’t lied to Akira since Akira discovered the truth about Madarame. He’s the only one that Yusuke’s ever confided in about his childhood, about the resentment he felt towards the man who raised him. Yusuke… doesn’t want to lie to Akira, not after everything Akira’s done.

But if Yusuke doesn’t lie, the house of cards Akechi has built around him will fall, and all this guilt will have been for nothing.

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” he finally murmurs, mouth running dry.

Akechi watches him for a long moment, red eyes searching Yusuke’s face. What he’s searching for, Yusuke couldn’t say. Yusuke dares to meet his gaze, trying to match the resolve he sees in Akechi’s eyes. As much as Yusuke loathes lying to Akira, Yusuke has no intention of failing Akechi, either.

Finally, Akechi shrugs. “I suppose I should be with you when Akira pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong,” he says. “You’ll need to hide that bruise, though.”

This time, Akechi wraps a scarf around Yusuke’s neck, then fastens it with a lapel pin. He tugs to make sure it won’t fall out of place, checking from every angle that Yusuke’s bruise is still hidden. Satisfied, he and Yusuke leave together. They take the subway to Leblanc, the whole time Yusuke plastered to Akechi’s side.

It’s strange, Akechi thinks. Yesterday they were little more than strangers, yet now Yusuke follows in Akechi’s footsteps like a little duckling. A sleeping part of Akechi’s soul drinks it down and savors the feeling of being so openly _needed._ It’s intoxicating, and Akechi never wants to let it go. He never wants to let _Yusuke_ go.

The bell chimes overhead as they step into Leblanc. Yusuke stands in Akechi’s shadow, not even a step behind. Akechi can almost feel Yusuke’s breath down the back of his neck, humming with static. Leblanc is devoid of customers, as always. The only occupants are Sojiro at the counter and Akira pacing back and forth in front of the TV.

Akira holds his phone to his ear, hissing into it. “No! Nobody has been able to get ahold of him—”

Sojiro glances up at Akechi, then his eyes widen when he catches sight of Yusuke. “Hey kid,” he calls to Akira.

“—I know but what if something—”

Akechi coughs into his fist. “Is this a bad time?”

Akechi’s voice finally catches Akira’s attention. He turns to face them for the first time since they entered the cafe. Yusuke does his best to look small, hiding behind Akechi’s shoulder. That doesn’t stop Akira’s eyes from widening when he sees him.

“Yusuke!” he gasps.

Akira drops his phone and storms across the floor of Leblanc. Yusuke freezes like a deer in headlights, unable to even move before Akira wraps him in a crushing hug. He holds tight, like he’s afraid Yusuke might disappear if he lets go. The force of Akira bowling into him punches all the air from Yusuke’s lungs.

“Where have you been?” Akira asks, pulling back just enough to look into Yusuke’s eyes. His hands grip Yusuke’s arms in a vice. “We heard the news this morning and no one’s been able to reach you! Hifumi-san said you weren’t in class and we had no idea where you were! We’ve been freaking out!”

Yusuke opens his mouth, searching for anything to say. “My… my phone… I…”

“He’s been with me,” Akechi cuts in, saving Yusuke from his own leaden tongue.

Slowly, Akira turns his body towards Akechi, as if just now recognizing his presence. He makes no attempt to mask his confusion as his eyes dart between Yusuke and Akechi. Yusuke feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He forces himself to stay resolute. He won’t yield under the weight of Akira’s piercing eyes.

“I’m sorry?” Akira asks.

“Yusuke and I were studying together last night. I was with him when… well.” Akechi coughs into his fist. “After everything he spent the night at my place. Forgive me for not thinking to contact you all. It’s been a rather hectic couple of days.” He manages to chuckle, as if relaying a funny story.

Akira stares into Akechi’s familiar plasticine smile with open confusion. It’s strange, Yusuke thinks, to know someone is lying through their teeth yet betraying nothing with their eyes. Yusuke stands rigid, fighting against himself to keep his face carefully blank, to show nothing in the face of Akechi’s lies.

“I… wasn’t aware you two were friends,” Akira says carefully, watching Yusuke’s face.

“I’ve modeled for Yusuke a few times,” Akechi says offhandedly. “We share a common interest in the arts.” Yusuke manages a broken smile.

“I see…” Akira looks at Akechi warily. “Can you… give us a moment?”

Yusuke and Akechi share a charged look, one that Akira can’t even begin to decipher. Yusuke tries not to show the panic in his eyes, even as it surges through his veins. There’s no easy way to dodge Akira, not when he knows them both so well. The only thing in Akechi’s eyes is resolve.

 _Don’t fail,_ they seem to say.

Yusuke swallows. _I won’t._ He turns back to Akira.

“Of course,” Akechi says brightly, sliding into his usual seat at the bar. “Sakura-san, could I get some coffee?”

At the very least, Akechi can create a distraction if Yusuke trips over his own tongue.

Akira quickly pulls Yusuke to the base of the stairs, hand tight on Yusuke’s wrist. In Leblanc’s dim light, Yusuke looks _awful._ He’s wearing his uniform, despite not having gone to school that day. It’s rumpled and awkwardly creased, clearly having been slept in. His eyes are faintly bloodshot, the skin around his mouth dry and patchy. He looks like a strong wind might blow him over. Akira puts himself between Yusuke and the others, shielding Yusuke with his own body.

“First off,” Akira says, voice low, barely audible over the hum of the TV, “I’m _so_ relieved that you’re safe. We’ve all been so worried about you.”

Yusuke’s mouth is completely dry, but he manages to croak, “My phone died. I didn’t think—”

Akira waves him off. “It’s fine, it’s completely understandable.” Akira levels him with that determined gaze, the same one he used when he first offered to help Yusuke escape Madarame. “But, Yusuke… are they telling the truth? Did he…?” Akira glances over his shoulder to make sure no one is listening. “Did he hurt you?”

Has Yusuke already given himself away? He meets Akechi’s eyes over Akira’s shoulder. Akechi sips at his cup of coffee, eyes blazing like the setting sun. He raises his eyebrow, a silent challenge. Whatever Yusuke feels no longer matters. Akechi has put everything on the line for him. Yusuke would damn himself in a heartbeat, but he won’t resign Akechi to the same fate.

Against all odds, they’re a team now. Where Akechi goes, Yusuke follows.

The words come unbidden, without Yusuke even thinking about them. “No… No it was just an accident.”

It’s funny. It _does_ get easier.

**Author's Note:**

> triggers: yusuke accidentally kills madarame offscreen, past physical/emotional abuse, implied assault on a minor involving strangulation, detailed description of a dead body (no gore or blood), references to police corruption, crime scene coverup, akechi emotionally manipulates yusuke into lying to the police, CPR on a dead body including descriptions of chest compressions/ribs breaking, unhealthy/codependent feelings between yusuke & akechi, yusuke experiences shock & PTSD throughout the fic
> 
> Usumidori is the sword favored by the legendary samurai Yoshitsune (also the name of Yusuke's ultimate weapon)
> 
> Svalinn is a legendary shield from Norse mythology
> 
> you can come talk to me on [tumblr](https://aceklaviergavin.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/aceklaviergavin)


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